Page 50 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Morfran sighed, grabbed the shaft, tugged it out, nearly blacked out from the pain, and then held his sword back up. “I asked, who’s with me?”

The rebels hoisted their swords in the air and roared.

“Better,” Morfran muttered.

They quickly worked their way up towards the cliffside, sticking to the switchbacked path leading up. Some of the archers had slowed on releasing their arrows, nudging their neighbors with their elbows, their attentions snagged on something down below.

It was Bronwen, who was sailing down the trail like a hawk swooping in on a field mouse. She’d done him one better when he told her to try to be hit; not only had she removed her armor, but she’d also stripped down to her skivvies. Her chemise billowed out like a taunting banner that made the archers hasten to shoot her all while distracting them with a flash of skin here and there. To be honest, it distracted Morfran for a few seconds, too, before he could snap himself out of it.

Morfran didn’t slow as he came upon them. He swiped down those he could with his sword, kicking others off the cliffside with a rough shove of his boot.

Several of the archers stopped trying to shoot Bronwen and turned their bows on him and his rushing warriors.

Oh sh—

Arrows struck them all. Two men to Morfran’s right were skewered at once and toppled off their horses. The horse to Morfran’s left was shot in the throat. It let out a horsey wail and collapsed. The man riding it fell and rolled off the cliffside. He landed on another man who’d just barely managed to shimmy out from under his own dead horse. Both let out groans of pain.

Morfran had somehow managed to survive unscathed, but Dirtclobber hadn’t. She’d taken an arrow to the knee, which’d buckled the great steed to the ground and sent Morfran rolling forward. He popped up to his knees, sword still miraculously in his grip. He blinked, dazed, at the archers before him, all of whom looked surprised to see him still alive.

Behind him Dirtclobber was squealing in pain. He glowered at the soldiers. I was just getting to know her!

That was when a black bolt came flying up from below, staking through the nearest archer. He let out a guttural cry, and before he collapsed, glanced in the direction of the man who’d killed him. Down below Gueldefore stood atop a large boulder, his blue cape fluttering majestically behind him. In his grip was Morfran’s black crossbow.

The knight had already equipped a second bolt. He let it fly at a second archer, where it imbedded into the man’s neck and killed him instantly.

Morfran tipped his chin down in gratitude because even he had to acknowledge that the knight had saved his butt. But Gueldefore didn’t return the nod. He continued loading the crossbow, a strange, almost savage light in his eye as he shot yet another soldier down.

But there were more than just archers up on the cliffs. Hidden until now, behind a large mound ahead, was a group of soldiers all suited in the black-and-purple regalia of Ravana’s army. They were pouring out of hiding now, dozens of them screaming as they rushed Morfran and his men. A bannerman near the front hoisted up the magpie and marigold flag and shouted, “To the death! To the death!”

Morfran shuddered as a thought drifted through his head: I don’t know what to do.

It was as embarrassing as it was worrying. He gripped his sword and prepared to fight until his head was cleaved from his shoulders.

It didn’t happen.

It didn’t happen because right where the men were pouring out from the mound, the ground exploded. Dirt and debris and volcanic rock went flying. Men went flying. The bannerman went flying, still gripping the flag, and still shouting, “To the death!”

All types of battle stopped as everyone gawked at where the earth had suddenly decided to nuke them. The smoke and hazy fog of debris faded, revealing a lone figure on a horse.

Bronwen. She was still holding the branch up high. Only the branch wasn’t the color of sage anymore. It was peridot, and studded to its leaves were small, black, bead-like berries. She was in the middle of cranking her free arm back, as if about to throw something.

Morfran began scrambling away. “All with me, get back!”

The small berry that Bronwen chucked at Ravana’s men ruptured the ground where it struck. It sent half a dozen men flying, and Morfran had traumatic flashbacks to his farmhouse and the grass he’d littered with bolts dipped in boomberry juice.

Somehow, she’d found a legitimate boomberry bush. Likely by trying hard not to find one.

“Shoot the witch!” a man near the front screamed. Morfran squinted, recognizing the voice. It was General Killian, here in the flesh.

What archers remained turned their bows on her, but as they let arrows fly, a strange power seemed to alter the arrows’ course. Many flew off-kilter by just inches. Some seemed to crack off an invisible field surrounding her and came back to imbed themselves in the men who’d shot them. Others actually froze midair just to fall pathetically to the ground.

Bronwen’s expression remained fierce, triumphant, and Morfran had to admit, beautiful. A prick of pride rose within him for her. See? You’re not useless, he wanted to tell her. You’re quite spectacular, actually.

General Killian looked horrified at the rebel woman in her skivvies. He’d halted commands when he watched his men’s arrows fail.

Morfran took that moment to raise his sword up high. “Behold!” he shouted, attracting the attention of the enemy soldiers. “She is but one example of my dark work! She is unable to be killed, for she has been given a resurrected form that will not suffer harm.”

“Ah jeez, it’s the Necromancer,” one of General Killian’s men murmured in horror.